by Lou Hoffmann
Han snorted. “Right. Well, ‘diplomat’ is something I’d never call myself, either, Lem, but I guess I’d better try to fake it, and get it over with so I can get back to see if there’s anything I can do for Luccan. Please see to it that Tahlina, Rose, and Shehrice are all made aware Luccan woke up. I don’t want him left alone, so someone needs to get in there now.”
Lem tilted his head toward Zhevi. “What about this lad? He can stay with Luccan until someone else comes, at least.”
“No, I’m afraid not, Lem.” Turning to Zhevi, Han continued, “Follow me to my quarters. I need to make a bow toward dressing the part for these Droghona visitors. Unfortunately, my leg is none too sturdy yet, and I’ll need help. You’re it.” He stepped out, leaning heavily on his cane.
“Wait just a moment if ye will, sir,” Lem said nervously. “There’s more to tell, and it isn’t good.”
“Do you think the gods hate me, Lem?”
“Sir?”
“Never mind. Tell me the rest.”
“They’ve brought bodies with them.”
Han stopped short and turned back to face Lem.
Zhevi saw the color drain from Han’s face. He understood—for a military commander, fatalities were the worst kind of news they could ever hear. And now? It wasn’t even in the context of battle. It had to have been a shock.
“Ours?” Han asked, recovering quickly. “Where are the bodies now? How many?”
“Five total, sir. I had them laid out in the Night House portico to be tended to. One they identified as one of the messengers Gerania had sent out earlier. Two, incredibly, were Shahna’s Rangers—they found the bodies along the way with no evidence why they’d been there. Their horses were nowhere to be seen, but it was clear they died fighting.”
Zhevi tried to remember when the last time he’d heard about one of the Rangers—the most elite cavalry in the Sunlands, or Ethra, for that matter—having been killed in a fight. He couldn’t. It seemed like something that never happened.
Han looked disbelieving too. “Strange,” he muttered, but it seemed like he was speaking to himself.
Nevertheless, Lem agreed with an exaggerated nod. Then he said, “That’s not the strangest thing yet, sir… Han. Well, ye see… the other two bodies… no one knows quite what they are.”
“NO ONE knows what they are.” The sentence might have been the weirdest set of words Han had ever heard in any language. They ran amok in his thinking with no place to land as he made his limping way out of the manor house. He’d asked Lem what the two bodies looked like, and he’d muttered a gruff “sort of like humans, but different, really different.” And then to add to the strangeness, he’d said, “They don’t even look a bit like each other.”
What am I supposed to think?
“Thurlock, if you can hear me—” He couldn’t think of a single time in his long association with the old man when wizardly powers were more urgently needed, even if all he could do was figure things out. “We need you here… I need you—”
Just inside the front door, an angry shout reached him from the hall. “Han Shieth! I thought I told you not, under any circumstances, to leave the infirmary!”
Han let a cool, commanding precision slip into his tone. “Tahlina. I appreciate your right to direct my care as your patient, and I assure you I didn’t take your warning lightly. However, events beyond my control need my attention—mine. I am the person needed, not someone else. I give you my word I’ll return to the infirmary for care as soon as circumstances allow. In the meantime, I will continue to address you with respect, particularly in public, and I must insist that you do the same toward me.”
In the hierarchy of who’s who of the Sisterhold, Han’s lecture was akin to pulling rank. He didn’t need to read Tahlina’s mind to know she was shocked into silence. Her expression made that evident. No feeling of satisfaction at having clarified their relative positions came to him—he truthfully felt rather sorry. But what he’d said was true, and honestly, he’d probably spoken no sharper than necessary.
“Zhevi,” Han said, “lend me your shoulder.” When Zhevi stepped closer, Han transferred his cane to his off hand and leaned on Zhevi’s shoulder. Using him as a crutch, Han switched to a hop-and-leg-swing that didn’t require him to put any weight on the injured leg—which hurt relentlessly now.
“Wait,” Tahlina called, and then she trotted up in front of him to offer a packet of medicinal powder. “For the pain. It’s only willow bark—won’t make you sleepy or confused. On my word.”
Han took it, emptied the foul-tasting acidic stuff into his mouth and did his best to swallow it away. When he could speak, he said, “Thank you,” but Tahlina had already gone.
PART TWO: Dragon Diplomacy
Chapter Nine: Diplomacy on a Long Hot Day
WHEN THEY got to Han’s quarters, Zhevi marveled at the sparseness of the place. What he had expected he didn’t know, but a man a couple centuries old should have collected more stuff.
Most people had souvenirs, overstuffed furniture, handmade blankets and rugs. The walls in most homes were studded with paintings of family and favorite places—many of them magically enhanced in one way or another. Han’s walls were bare except for the crest of Behlishan’s Guard next to the door, Han’s dragon-hide shield, and Chiell Shan—his sword. A single portrait of a smiling, very young boy—Luccan, Zhevi guessed—sat on a utilitarian night table with only a book and candlestick for company. Han’s bed was a narrow cot, his kitchen had the minimum accoutrements and a plain table of dark wood with four matching straight-backed chairs. A sole bow to comfort, a large, puffy chair and footstool took up most of the small living room.
Maybe he keeps his personal things in his office over in the Sisterhold Garrison, he thought as he helped Han to one of the kitchen chairs.
“No, Zhevi. I don’t have many personal items anywhere.”
“Han! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right. Curiosity isn’t a crime. Thing is, you were right next to me and thinking about me, and I’m too tired to block that. Let it be a reminder that sometimes your thoughts aren’t secret. As far as your questions, the truth is I have few family keepsakes, and few reasons to want more. The things I do have, I keep put away. It so happens that right now I need you to get a couple of them for me so I can get ready to greet these Droghona elders.”
For the next ten minutes, while Han sat in one of the wooden chairs with his injured leg propped on another, Zhevi followed Han’s very precise instructions, such as:
“The trunk at the foot of my bed has my Guard gear. I need the circlet for my helmet, the insignia that slides over it, and the badge. The rest can stay.”
And:
“The hook farthest to the right has a long, dark red, suede garment like a cape. I’ll need that, and the beaded belt hanging behind it. In the small chest third from the bottom on the right-hand side of the closet is a roll with a khalta of the same material, trimmed with the same beaded pattern. Get that but leave the shirt.”
Also: “There’s a fresh pair of sandals in the wooden box at the very top of the same stack. I guess I’d better wear them for appearance’s sake.”
Once Zhevi had gathered all these things and the various small items for Han and laid them out on the bed, Han sighed deeply, wearily, and stood. Without any self-consciousness—something Zhevi knew a soldier could ill afford, Han stripped down to nothing more than his smallclothes and the bandage on his leg, then began to dress in the unusual attire. Seeing the muscles in Han’s back ripple under smooth, almost hairless red-bronze skin as he pulled the shirt over his head, Zhevi remembered he’d once had a crush on Han—a silly thing, really, as he hadn’t really been old enough at the time to know what crushes were about, and Han was close to two centuries his senior. Luccan had a lot of the same qualities as Han, and Zhevi found him attractive too. Simple truth, though, was that nobody, male or female, could ever take L’Aria’s place in his heart. She was the per
son he was meant to be with.
I only wish she was as sure about that as I am.
“Her path is unique,” Han said. “You know that. Still, I wouldn’t be surprised if she felt the same way you do. Don’t get discouraged.”
Zhevi’s face went hot, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. If Han had heard his thoughts about L’Aria, he’d heard….
“Don’t worry about it, Zhevi. But seriously, you need to learn to block others from your thoughts. Luccan is surprisingly good at it. He could help you, once he gets to feeling better.”
“What is it that’s wrong with him, Han? It’s… scary.”
“It is, and I don’t know.” Han finished tying his hair up in a topknot, placed the circlet—actually a part of his helmet—on his brow with the insignia over his left eye, signaling his rank. He groaned quietly and grimaced as he leaned on his cane to push himself up. “Mirror,” he said, and hobbled over to where an unframed silver-backed glass hung on the closet door. “How do I look?” he asked as he adjusted the beaded belt, moved the badge bearing the crest of Behlishan’s Guard higher on his shoulder, and twitched the fringe on his cloak in expert fashion so that it all hung straight.
Instead of answering, Zhevi asked, “Those clothes, sir, they’re Drakha?”
“Let’s go,” Han said. “I’ve left them waiting too long already.” He didn’t answer Zhevi’s actual question until they were out the door. He couldn’t negotiate the steps off his porch very well, so he accepted Zhevi’s shoulder, and once they were down he said, “Yes, Drakha, and the pattern in the beadwork belongs to my family line, the Drakhonic.”
Zhevi had to smile. It had become clear to him why Han chose these things to wear. “They’ll know exactly who you are, right, sir?”
Han was one of only a few Drakha in the vicinity of the Sisterhold, and he was the last Drakhonic anywhere—besides Luccan—as far as anyone knew. And he was the only person still alive with the Mark of the Sun emblazoned as a birthmark on his shoulder, which was in plain view. Those things, together with the symbols of his military affiliation and rank—basically, he was wearing his credentials.
“Right,” Han said. “The Droghona are relatives; their ancestors were of the Drakhonic. They, like the Drakha, are a traditional people. They’ll not have forgotten. It would be much better if Thurlock were here to greet them, but as he’s not, it’s important to let them know what qualifies me to act in his stead.” They’d reached the path that led into the gardens, and Han stopped, let go of Zhevi’s shoulder, and said, “I have to stand on my own two feet, here. Your job is to keep pleading with Behlishan to keep me upright.”
To Zhevi’s amazement, Han straightened, set his face in a calm, stoic expression, and began to walk almost normally, touching the ground with the cane but not appearing to lean on it at all. His pace wasn’t Han’s usual brisk stride, but no one would have guessed at his pain.
As Han stepped between the flowering hedges that formed the garden gate, the sun leveled a bright shaft at him so that he appeared bathed in gold. Everyone—from the oldest of the Droghona visitors to the kitchen staff who saw Han every day—stood wide-eyed and stared.
WELL, HAN thought. Talk about a dramatic entrance.
Oddly, for a man of his position, he didn’t enjoy being the center of attention. It was why he’d developed his easy, give-and-take manner with the troops—evident even in formal briefings and when firing them up for a fight. But this situation was different—he’d have to draw attention to himself. This was to be a diplomatic greeting. When the regiments had gone south last fall, the concern had been Droghona aggression. Though the situation facing them appeared to be different than first believed, the Droghona were not habitually allies of the Sunlands.
Dressed in the regalia of leadership—for the Drakhonic by tradition formed the core of leadership for the Drakha and at one time also the Droghona—Han would be recognized by the visitors as kin and as a person to be respected. If he matched his behavior to his appearance, they’d know he held them in esteem, but that he required the same from them. As he also clearly wore the badge of affiliation with Behlishan’s Guard, the insignia of superior military rank, and—laid bare for all to see—the Mark of the Sun, he allowed no possibility of doubt that the respect he demanded was to be accorded to the Sunlands as a whole. Of course, they would know that anyway. The Drakha—and particularly the Drakhonic line—had been woven into the fabric of the Sunlands by Naht’kah, their red dragon ancestress herself, and had been fact for many centuries.
Won’t hurt to remind them, though. Han’s slow pace as he progressed forward from the gate was truthfully meant to allow him to walk as upright as possible, but it also allowed the delegation of Sunlands officialdom—who would have been observing from just inside the manor, waiting for the proper moment—to also make their way to the arbor in the center of the garden where the Droghona waited. He watched as they approached and assembled themselves around the perimeter of the arbor—Rose, Lem, an exhausted-looking Sergeant Koehl, and four wizards.
Han’s own path remained level, fortunately, though it was raised a few feet higher than the floor beneath the arbor. It ended on a dais of paving stones, the twelve-rayed sun laid within it painted golden in a blue field. Magically suspended above it, a large, three-dimensional, sun-metal version of the same symbol slowly revolved, glinting under the true sun, which rode high in a cloudless sky. Han came to a stop beneath it, working to keep his face passive, his posture upright, and his thoughts clear against the pain burning the muscles of his injured leg.
He allowed himself the space of three slow breaths to regain his strength. He couldn’t afford to open himself completely to the thoughts of this many people—it would steal his focus—but in that brief moment he relaxed his mental blocks enough to get a sense of mood and intent. Mostly, he sensed benign thoughts, but he noted exceptions. Rose silently mocked his pomp, and at least half of his own mind agreed. He had a moment’s struggle to keep from smiling at her. One of the Droghona, the only woman, was clearly sending friendly intent purposefully, which reminded Han that the talent for mental communication was a hand-me-down from the Drakha. Briefly, he allowed an answering mental smile to touch her.
But from two directions, he sensed contention. One of the Droghona men, the youngest of the trio if appearances didn’t lie, seemed skeptical to the point of pessimism. Han took note and then moved on to the one mind that seemed to hold true malice—that of a wizard named Mahros. He was a man who appeared to be about sixty years old, though that wasn’t true. Able and talented, he often proved to be less than ready and willing when called upon for service of any kind. At the moment, he’d blocked his thoughts, but his resentment of Han and… yes, of Luccan too… had such strength it cut straight through the impediment. Very briefly Han entertained the notion that this wizard might have had something to do with the attack on Luccan on the green the previous day, but quickly stowed the idea to be addressed later. Now was not the time.
The most important task at present was to welcome these Droghona visitors in peace, whether they would prove to be friends or adversaries in the end. And to do it quickly. I need to get to Luccan before I am too exhausted to do anything to help him at all.
Han had been on diplomatic missions before. He didn’t like the job, but he was capable. In this particular instance, he was more than capable, perfectly suited to the role simply by virtue of who he was. The language and formal customs of the Droghona and Drakha peoples were similar enough that no translator would be required for a simple exchange.
Standing as upright and steady as he could, he greeted the tribal elders in Drakha, his seldom-used native tongue. He chose the word for welcome that one respected elder used for another and accompanied it with the appropriate gesture. With hands turned upward, he placed his right fist in his left palm, opened the fist, and dipped into a one-sided bow that involved bending one leg and leaning the head toward that side. Thankfully the bending knee was the u
ninjured one, but he still had to resist the impulse to grimace with pain from the motion.
The three Droghona repeated the greeting word—differently accented in their tongue—as well as the gesture, but when they returned the bow, they dipped slightly lower. They knew who he was—no one could mistake him for another—and would know that though his age didn’t show, he had more years than two of them combined. They afforded him the greater respect. The courteous tone set, Han now went about undoing it, somewhat, putting them more at ease. He had no desire to “lord it over them” or make them uncomfortable while they waited for Thurlock. He once again employed the formality built into the cultures, but this time to relieve tensions. “Allow me,” he said in Drakha, “to be your brother.”
While a woman interpreted his words in Karrish for the benefit of others present, all the Droghona smiled and nodded slightly, then the woman stepped forward and took both his hands, which he had held outstretched. “Olana,” she said, giving her name.
Han replied with his name, and then each of the Droghona men—Hoa and Wen—did as Olana had done.
Keeping to simple language and speaking slowly so the Droghona could follow his dialect and the interpreter could keep up, Han said, “I can see that you bring news, and it’s important, but unless a couple hours’ time will make a difference in the matter, I invite you to settle into your rooms, refresh yourselves, and then join the household for lunch, an informal meal which should be served in about an hour. I’ve recently had contact from Premier Wizard Thurlock, whom I understand you wish to consult. I expect him home soon.”
Silently and blocking so that none might read his thoughts, he added, Please!
AFTER WRAPPING up with introductions to various people of the Sisterhold, Han made his exit. He held up his hand to get Lem’s attention, then wiggled his fingers in a gesture that meant follow. When Lem caught up to him, he said, “I need you to get a message to Tennehk for me, right away, and I need it to not reach any ears but his.”
